


Ineffable Plans

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-02-19
Updated: 2008-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has hit on a plan to end the war. Draco isn't so sure about it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Middle of Things

**Author's Note:**

> I hardly remember what this fic is about now, hah. Abandoned WIP, conceived of pre-Deathly Hallows while listening to too much 30 Seconds to Mars.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/5319.html). (19 February 2008)

_I won't suffer, be broken, get tired, or wasted_  
Surrender to nothing, or give up what I  
Started and stopped it, from end to beginning  
A new day is coming, and I am finally free 

Draco Malfoy, scion of one of the oldest and richest Wizarding families in Britain, had strict rules regarding research. He had tried to impress the terrible consequences of disrupting his research upon everyone he knew, and for the most part was left in relative peace in the slightly musty library, disturbed only by occasional ominous rustling from the curtains hanging somewhere behind him, or small sounds of Granger immersed in her own research across the room. Today he had only the curtains to contend with, as Granger was out on some sort of ‘fact-finding’ mission, which Draco was almost gleefully positive involved getting the Weasel into dangerous or compromising positions.

Harry Potter, social misfit and popularly appointed Savior, had never possessed an ounce of regard for any rules or consequences. Draco had known this on an intellectual level for years, but the point was hammered home as Potter skidded into the small room. Malfoy rules aside, Draco thought irritably, hadn’t Granger taught him anything?

The man was clearly even more insane than usual – his hair looked as though _things_ had been nesting in it. Putting down the dusty tome he’d been leafing through, Draco studied Potter critically. His pulse had quickened; the result of his old habit of hating Potter’s guts, he knew, added to the lingering unease that Potter might accidentally eviscerate him again.

He sat and pretended to examine his cuticles, waiting for Potter to stop making noises like a beached fish and speak. He wondered if feeding Potter to the curtains would be an acceptable punishment for interrupting research.

“Malfoy, listen,” Potter managed, but started coughing before he could finish. Draco raised an eyebrow and pushed his own glass of water toward the other boy. 

“Do try to control yourself, Potter,” he said dryly. “We don’t want you killing yourself before Voldemort gets another crack at you.”

Potter made a face, but he drank the water and took a deep breath. He leaned on the table, bending closer to Draco. “Malfoy, I’ve found it,” he said shakily. 

“Found what?” Draco asked mildly, clamping down on the first flutters of excitement in his gut. “Really, Potter, all those years of education have been wasted if you can’t clarify a simple pronoun…”

Potter pushed his hair back in exasperation. “The last Horcrux, Malfoy. What else?”

Draco refrained from pointing out any number of things Potter could have found, feeling that perhaps now, with Potter so close and so clearly itching for some kind of fight, was not the best time to test the Chosen One’s limits for sarcasm. He wasn’t sure how fireproof Grimmauld Place was.

Potter, now in full Deranged Hero mode, charged ahead, speaking fast, as if the words might escape if he didn’t say them right away. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before,” he said, beginning to pace, pounding his fist into his hand for emphasis. “It was so _obvious_ , now that I think about it. We knew Voldemort used his most important killings to make the Horcruxes. What would have been more important than this one? He would’ve solved the problem of the prophecy and finished the last Horcrux in one blow. It would have been his crowning achievement. It’s all so _simple_!”

Draco was swiftly losing patience with this act. Didn’t Potter see that he was _researching_? “Potter,” he said sharply. “I haven’t a clue what you’re nattering on about. Calm down, have a seat, and tell me what the hell’s going on like a rational human being.”

Potter looked surprised. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

Draco scowled threateningly. “If it were _obvious_ , Potter, I would not have been holed up in this dismal library for months trying to figure it out. If it were _obvious_ , we’d have gotten rid of Voldemort ages ago. Stop the bloody dramatics and _tell me_.”

Potter stopped pacing and stared at Draco, his expression serious, and Draco considered the theory that Potter had been picking up acting tips from Shacklebolt. 

“I’m the last Horcrux.”

Draco was only momentarily stunned by this revelation before the humor of the situation hit. “You’re the last Horcrux?” he asked, chuckling. “Oh Potter, that takes megalomania to a whole new level! For Merlin’s sake… what the hell gave you that idea?” As Potter opened his mouth to speak, Draco said quickly, “And don’t tell me ‘it’s simple’, again, because I’ll have to hit you.”

Potter made a highly unattractive face, but Draco remained unmoved. Really, hadn’t anyone ever told him his face would stick like that?

“Hermione gave me a hunch, that day when we were trying to figure out what Voldemort could have used for a Horcrux from Ravenclaw or Gryffindor.”

Draco remembered vividly. Granger had emerged from her corner of the library briefly for a discussion of research tactics, Weasley trailing after her like a sad, kicked puppy. Really, Draco thought approvingly, there was a girl after his own heart. After a mutual, unspoken agreement to forget their initial — misunderstandings — they’d bonded over a shared love for color-coded charts. He’d never understand what she saw in the Weasel, but he had a healthy fear of her left hook and tried to keep opinions like that to himself when she was about.

He dragged himself away from his thoughts and concentrated on Potter, who had continued his dramatic monologue without noticing the distraction of his audience.

“I started looking back through records, trying to trace Gryffindor’s descendents. I thought that if we could narrow the search like that, we’d have an easier time finding whatever it was Voldemort used.”

“Brilliant deduction, genius,” Draco murmured, but Potter ignored him.

“Gryffindor’s line was difficult to follow, but I’d finally got the hang of it when the surname changed. I lost the thread.” Potter began to pace again. “I was ready to give up. It’d taken me months to trace the genealogy that far and there I was, stumped by the last few generations. Then, I saw this.”

He fished a photograph out of his robes and thrust it at Draco before sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, shoulders hunched, eyes watching Draco sharply. 

Draco took the photo, squinting at the faded faces. Five people wearing dress robes smiled and waved up at him from beneath a stand of trees. One appeared to be a younger version of his cousin Sirius Black, though more handsome and definitely cleaner. He looked more closely at the familiar-looking man leaning on Black’s shoulder, and realized with a start that it was Lupin with fewer wrinkles and no grey streaks in his hair. No wonder Potter had gotten special treatment in that class, if Lupin had been in with his godfather. With them was also a smaller man with shifty eyes and… Draco drew his eyebrows together. Dominating the center of the picture was a man with Potter’s ridiculous hair who stood smiling, his arm around a red-haired woman who looked back at him fondly. She had Potter’s unmistakable green eyes. With a start, Draco realized that he was, for the first time, looking at Potter’s parents. He looked up at Potter, who was staring at the picture, an almost hungry look on his face.

“Potter,” Draco drawled as insolently as he could. If he was ever going to get a straight answer out of Potter, he knew the best way to get it was to make the git angry. “Why are you showing me a picture of your pathetic dead parents?”

Potter snapped upright, glaring threateningly at Draco. “My parents weren’t _pathetic_ , Malfoy,” he said angrily. “Look at your own parents before you talk about mine. At least mine died for the right side.” 

That stung. Draco half-rose in his seat, retort on the tip of his tongue, ready to give as good as he got, before the knotted scar crossing his chest tingled. He sank back down, pulling himself together. Fighting would solve nothing. “The question still stands, Potter,” he said smoothly.

“Look at his hand,” Potter said shortly, pointing to his father. Draco peered at it suspiciously. There was nothing there; obviously Potter was off his nut at last… wait. There, a flash of something on Potter Senior’s right hand as he waved it. 

He held out an imperious hand. “Magnifying glass.” 

Potter grabbed the glass sitting on the desk and handed it to him. Yes, that was better. He focused on the hand. There it was again, the glint of something in the sun — a ring of some sort, Draco thought. He looked at it more closely. Something was familiar about the ring’s shape…

“It’s a lion,” Potter said softly. “I’ve looked through all the pictures I can find of him and it’s definitely a lion. And all the illustrations I’ve found of Gryffindor show him wearing the same ring.”

Draco sat back. “How do you know it’s not just a Hogwarts student showing his house pride?” he demanded.

“I had Hermione check my research, Malfoy, and she confirmed it,” Potter said heatedly. “The surname was changed, but that ring has passed from generation to generation since Gryffindor himself. Do you want to go over the books, too? It’ll take you a few weeks to figure out the same thing I just told you.”

Draco snorted. “Give me some credit, Potter. It’d take me half as long to do the research as it took you.”

Potter gave him a bland look. “I am giving you credit. It took me months.”

Draco looked at him suspiciously. Potter was staring at the picture again, and at the look in his eyes, Draco decided to let the point go. “Fine. Just for a minute, let’s go with your absurd theory. Why are _you_ the Horcrux and not the ring?”

Potter leaned back in his chair. “Voldemort already considered my parents dangerous. We know he’d already tried to kill them. The prophecy just moved them up a few places to the top of his hit list, and added me as well.” He swallowed. “He probably knew about the ring — a perfect Horcrux. All that needed to be done was to make it. He wanted to use my death; the death of the one he thought the prophecy foretold. But then…” Potter paused and looked away. For a terrible moment, Draco thought he might be expected to — horror beyond horrors — offer comfort to the Boy Wonder, but Potter cleared his throat manfully and went on.

“We all know what happened. Voldemort must have taken the ring from my father after…” He cleared his throat again. “He must have taken the ring from my father and gone in to finish me off and create the Horcrux. When things went wrong, the spell must have… ricocheted or something... and hit me.”

Draco wasn’t buying it. “How do you know?” he demanded. “How do you know it ‘ricocheted’? It’s not like you can remember anything, and we don’t have the ring to test it.”

“Think about it, Malfoy!” Potter argued, sitting up in his chair and stabbing viciously at the air with his finger to illustrate his point. “There’s my scar — isn’t the Killing Curse famous for not leaving any mark on its victims? And there’s always been a strange bond between me and Voldemort – Parseltongue, the ability to see into his mind, to feel his emotions. I don’t think that’s normal arch-enemy stuff.”

Draco massaged his temples. When Potter put it in that light, it did seem strange; but there was no _proof_. “So what if it’s true?” he asked sharply, trying to needle Potter into actually thinking critically. He wondered if Potter’s brain would explode with the effort. “I could blow you up and get rid of the little Voldemort soul-piece that way, but I doubt the public would approve. By the time Weasel and Granger were through with me, they’d have to send what was left of me to Azkaban in a wand box.”

Potter colored slightly and coughed. “Actually, I, er, I have a plan.”

“Merlin help us all,” Draco muttered. “Look, as long as it doesn’t involve…”

“It involves you,” Potter said, staring determinedly out the window. “You’re the only one who can perform the spell.”

“Potter…”

Potter turned and looked at Draco directly. “Malfoy, you’re the only one. Believe me, I’d rather ask Hermione or Ron, but I can’t burden them with this.”

Draco froze, and felt the familiar comforting bubble of rage rise in his gut. Of course. He should have known it would all come back to this. He stood up. “You’ve got some nerve, Potter,” he said coldly. “You can’t involve the people who actually give a damn whether you live or die — but an ex-Death Eater, he’s perfect to do your dirty work?” He shoved his left sleeve up as he spoke, exposing the snake that still writhed on his forearm. Potter twitched, but his eyes stayed on Draco’s face.

“That’s not the way it is, Malfoy,” Potter said, obviously fighting to keep his voice level.

“Isn’t it?” Draco sneered. “That’s sure the way it looks.”

Potter got to his feet as well, raking his hands through his disaster of a haircut in frustration. “Look, if you would just _listen_ for one minute, instead of flying off the handle, I could _explain_ everything…”

“What is there to explain?” he said cruelly. “I’m Marked, I’m expendable. But Potter,” he hissed, leaning over the table, “did you stop to think that maybe – just maybe – I still have my pride? I won’t be used by anyone, especially not the Gryffindor Golden Boy. Maybe I’ll just go back to Voldemort — I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a new source of information from inside the Order, after he’s through _torturing_ me.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Potter snapped.

“I’m not an idiot, Potter. You just can’t take anyone disagreeing with you, can you?”

Potter looked surprised, perhaps almost disgusted. “What? Malfoy, most of the _world_ disagrees with me. And if you actually stopped and pulled your head out of your arse for two seconds…”

“Oh, so I’m stupid, now, too?” Draco knew somewhere in his head that he was being petty, but this felt so right — Malfoy and Potter, arguing, wanting the other to just keel over and _die_ — it made the world make sense again. He watched with interest as Potter actually attempted to pull tufts of his own hair out.

“Bugger all, Malfoy,” Potter snapped. “I know you’re not stupid. And I know you’re not about to go running to Voldemort. You hate him just as much as I do.”

Draco leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “That could be a very dangerous belief, Potter.”

“Maybe,” Potter said, leaning across the table as well. “Doesn’t change the fact that I believe it, though, does it?”

They stared at each other across the table, neither giving an inch. To his dismay, Draco felt his anger start to fizzle in the face of Potter’s glower. The insufferable git had called his bluff. He _wasn’t_ about to rejoin the Dark Lord’s army, not after his parents. And, he had to admit, he was curious about Potter’s plan. Damn Potter. 

He realized with a jolt that they had been drifting unconsciously closer, so that they were nose-to-nose, their faces nearly touching. Potter’s breath hitched, and Draco pulled back quickly, almost throwing himself into the curtains lurking behind him. Damn Potter. Damn him and his eyes, and his sense of honor, and his thick-headedness, and his atrocious hair, and all those things about him that made him everything a Malfoy was not. Draco sat down in his chair again, scowling.

“So what’s this _brilliant_ plan?” he asked, with bad grace.

Potter’s expression cleared, and he sat down again on his chair, scooting it closer so that he could lean his arms on the desk. Draco looked pointedly at this, but Potter ignored him.

“The only hope we have,” he said, settling easily back into the Deranged Hero look, “is to destroy the Horcrux in me.”

“I should think that would be obvious,” Draco said cuttingly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Potter waved this away impatiently. “The only way to do that is to bring it to the surface first. There’s a spell I found in one of Hermione’s books we can use.”

“What, _Accio Horcrux_?”

“No. It’s a little more complicated than that,” Potter said seriously.

Draco snorted. “Joke, Potter. Get a sense of humor.”

Potter chose to ignore that remark. “It doesn’t last very long, so we’ll need to be close to Voldemort while you perform it.”

“How close?” Draco could see it now — Potter suddenly standing up in the middle of some furious, enormous battle and asking everyone to please quiet down, he was going to destroy the last Horcrux, and would Voldemort please stand a little closer? It was something Potter would do, the imbecile.

“Within a few kilometers, I think.”

Draco started breathing again. A few kilometers was good. A few kilometers meant that they could destroy Voldemort while hiding behind a very solid wall. “So,” he said, relaxing and placing his fingertips together in front of his nose, “I perform the spell. Then what? Voldemort dissolves? Casts of thousands sing our praises?”

“Well,” Potter said, hesitating. “The spell doesn’t… actually destroy the Horcrux. It more… brings it to the surface so it can be destroyed.”

Of course nothing could be easy with the Chosen One. “So how do we get it out of your forehead and destroy it?”

Looking everywhere in the room except at Draco, Potter hemmed and hawed and cleared his throat several times, obviously uncomfortable.

Draco had never had much patience with avoidance tactics, and Potter was a horrible actor, despite Shacklebolt’s training. “Potter, I’ve listened to you this long, but my tolerance has its limits. Spit it out. How do we destroy it?”

Potter was still determinedly not looking at him, but he started talking again. “We’ve destroyed all of the others by destroying the containers, right?”

Draco had a sudden vision of Potter exploding into tiny fragments before him. “No, Potter!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “I thought I’d already made it clear that there is no _way_ I am taking the rap for murdering the Savior of the wizarding world.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Potter said irritably. “Before you interrupted me, I was going to say that that wasn’t really an option.”

“Oh,” Draco said, and then, “Good.” The fans would rip him apart. And then Granger would find him and resurrect him and then she and Weasley would rip him apart again.

“The only way to get rid of a Horcrux within a human is to use the Killing Curse,” Harry said, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

Draco blinked. There was something strange buzzing in his ears. The curtains must be acting up again. The Blacks had always had the strangest drapery lying around waiting to waylay innocent passersby. “That’s funny,” he said in a thin sort of voice. “I could’ve sworn you just said you didn’t want to be dead.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Potter argued. “The curse will eliminate the Horcrux, but it shouldn’t – affect – me. Then Voldemort will be completely mortal, and I can finish him.” He finished with an unholy look of triumph on his face, bringing his fist down onto his knee with a distinct thud.

Draco shook his head to clear it. “No, I’m sorry—I missed that last part. I’m still hung up on the part where I have to cast the _Killing Curse_ on you and somehow miraculously not kill you.” A small, treacherous part of his mind was whispering _Could you do it? Could you mean it?_ , but he stamped on it cruelly. 

“I never said it had to be you,” Potter said, looking at him at last. “That’s the other part of why we have to be close to Voldemort before bringing the Horcrux to the surface. He’s got to be the one casting the curse. That’s why I need you.”

“Why, because I’m an ex-Death Eater and therefore on speaking terms with him?” Draco gave a harsh laugh. “You’re sadly mistaken.”

“No,” said Potter with exaggerated patience. “Because I need someone to watch my back, and you’re the only one for the job.”

Draco frowned. “You’re thicker than I thought,” he informed Potter. “You’ve got an obscene number of loyal supporters who would all happily watch your back…what are Granger and the Weasel for, if not to watch your back? They’d probably do a sight better job than I would.”

Harry shook his head. “I know they’d do it for me in a second,” he said. “But they’re all wrong for this. Death Eaters fight dirty. Voldemort wants to kill me himself, but I wouldn’t put it past any of them to gang up and incapacitate me first. Ron and Hermione are good in a fight, but not this kind. I need someone who will fight dirty right back and keep them all off of me. I need someone to draw the fire away from me without being hit.” He hesitated. “And... I need someone I know won’t try to sacrifice themselves for me. I need _you_ , Malfoy.”

Draco stared hard at him, trying to find the hidden barb he _knew_ had to be there.


	2. A Beginning of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/5857.html#cutid1). (29 February 2008)

_Run away, run away, I'll attack  
Run away, run away, go chase yourself  
Run away, run away, now I'll attack_

The four of them had gathered around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place that evening to discuss plans for finding the next Horcrux. The big house was empty now, except for them and perhaps a few rats in the walls – it had taken them a week to find Kreacher’s body curled at the foot of Mrs. Black’s forbidding, cobwebbed old bed. At the time, it had seemed so strange that old age should still be taking lives along with the war; they were all so used to unexpected funerals by then. Ron had said “Good riddance!” perhaps a bit too loudly and Hermione had fussed over burial plans. Harry privately thought that they should’ve just Vanished Kreacher’s body and gotten it over with, but Hermione had been set on giving the “misunderstood” elf what she viewed as his proper due.

“Hermione,” Harry had tried to point out, “he betrayed Sirius. He gave him over _willingly_. The only thing he deserved he’s already gotten.” All that comment had gotten him was a passionate lecture on undervaluing another life and the effect views like his had on down-trodden elves and who knew what else. He’d gotten off easily, though, compared to Malfoy, who’d suggested that they chop off Kreacher’s head and mount it on the wall with his glorious elf ancestors. _That_ suggestion had earned the blond an hour of Hermione stomping furiously after him as he tried to escape, shouting about inbred prejudices and fair treatment for all creatures.

Harry and Ron had escaped to the garden behind the house before she really got going. “Ahhh,” Ron had said, stretching contentedly, as the echoes of her shouts and Malfoy’s protestations drifted out through the open windows. “Sounds like home.”

“You’re mental, mate,” Harry had replied, laughing, and Ron had smiled and shrugged.

Now Harry looked across the table at his two best friends, who were leaning slightly, unconsciously, against one another. He looked away again, an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. They had always been a trio, a singular unit, and now he was the odd man out. The feeling had only gotten worse since Ginny – 

He stopped himself sternly. What was done was done, and blaming himself for her death had gotten him nowhere.

Digging the palms of his hands into his eyes, he forced himself back into the present. The conversation was going about well as it usually did: Ron and Malfoy were arguing hotly as Hermione looked on, aggrieved.

“Look, Weasel, I know your mental development was stunted from birth and this is hard for your tiny brain to comprehend, but try really hard to understand…”

Ron cracked his knuckles. “Watch your mouth, Ferret, or the only brain you’ll have will be what you can scrape off of the floor.”

Harry watched the exchange without real interest. Hermione’s expression was less than amused, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she took matters in hand.

Hermione elbowed Ron in exasperation and shot a glare at Malfoy, effectively silencing them both. Harry surreptitiously checked his watch under the table. A full thirty seconds – Hermione was slipping a bit. Usually they only made it to about fifteen before she stepped in to referee. 

“This isn’t helping,” she said as the two glowered at each other. “Malfoy, shut up. Ron, look. We know the last two Horcruxes have to be something from Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, because the memory Snape gave Harry rules out Nagini, remember?”

Harry remembered. He had been so ready to kill someone, to make _someone_ pay for everything that had gone wrong. Snape, cold and slimy as ever, had given him the memory with no explanation, leaving him to figure it out. Which he had, Harry thought savagely. He’d shown Snape that he wasn’t someone to be toyed with. Snape might have had a reason for killing Dumbledore, but it didn’t make him any less of a bastard.

Malfoy was speaking to Hermione now. “We start with Ravenclaw. We don’t have any clues about the Gryffindor Horcrux, since we’ve ruled out the sword and the hat.” He turned to Harry.

“Potter, are you still absolutely sure about the sword? It makes the most sense.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sure. The sword’s always been with Dumbledore — Voldemort wouldn’t have had a chance to get to it. That’s why he wanted to teach at the school: so he could have easier access to it. It’s not the sword.”

“Right,” said Hermione briskly, counting off what they knew on her fingers. “So we don’t know what the Gryffindor or the Ravenclaw object is. We’ve destroyed the Hufflepuff cup and Slytherin’s locket. Dumbledore got the Horcrux in Slytherin’s ring, and Harry took care of the diary.” She lowered her hand and tapped her finger on the table, looking pensive. “What could the Ravenclaw object be?”

Silence reigned. Harry half-heartedly ran through possibilities in his head, but he’d already run through the obvious ones a thousand times, and none of them made sense.

“It’s probably a book,” Ron muttered mutinously, slouching further down in his chair. Hermione shot him an exasperated look.

“Ronald,” she said darkly, “if you’re not going to take this seriously…”

Draco held up a hand, brow furrowed in concentration. “Hold on, there, Granger.” He pulled at his nose, something he seemed to do unconsciously when he was thinking. “Your dunce of a boyfriend might actually have a point there.” He glanced at Ron. “Don’t let it go to your head, Weasel.”

Ron looked torn between smugness at escaping the wrath of Hermione and horror that he and Malfoy were agreeing. Harry tried to stifle a chuckle.

Malfoy went on. “Voldemort’s used a book before. And it fits with Ravenclaw, a book.”

Hermione looked unconvinced. “But we haven’t found any mention of a book in relation to Ravenclaw…”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? Aren’t books _all_ that are mentioned in relation to Ravenclaw?”

“That’s just my point, Malfoy,” Hermione shot back, flushing slightly. “It’s always books — but there’s never been _one_ book that stands out from the rest.”

“Well,” Malfoy drawled, leaning back in his chair with an impish look on his face. “That’s why we have _you_ , isn’t it? To figure everything out for us?”

Hermione glared at him. “We all have to work _together_ ,” she began.

“But there’s nothing left to discuss here, right?” Ron asked hopefully, one wary eye on Hermione. “Now that we’ve got a lead, can we get back to work?” From the look on his face, Harry knew he was adding silently to himself: _And away from Malfoy?_

Hermione sighed, but couldn’t help sneaking a look towards the library. Harry suppressed a smile. Other girls went wild over jewelry or shoes; Hermione was moved to rapture by research. She was undoubtedly the best of them at following leads, though Malfoy, Harry knew, would probably only admit that under torture.

“Oh, go on, Granger,” Malfoy said, sitting back in his chair. “You know you can’t wait to bury yourself in books.”

“The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll find something,” Hermione retorted. She stood up and stretched before giving Ron a significant look that Harry did his best to ignore. Before she left the room, she looked sternly at Harry and Malfoy. “And you two, don’t stay up all night. We’ll need your help in the morning.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. Ron hesitated in the doorway, clearly torn, and Malfoy snorted.

“Run along, Weasley,” he said. “Don’t keep Granger waiting.”

Ron looked in question at Harry, but Harry smiled and shook his head. He’d be alright on his own with Malfoy. After all, it had been months since the last time he’d tried to kill the prat. Ron gave a nod back in what he obviously hoped was a reassuring manner, glared at Malfoy for good measure, and followed Hermione out.

After Ron left, they sat in silence, listening to the grandfather clock tick. Harry stole a look at Malfoy. The blond was deep in thought, staring into space as the light from the wall sconces flickered in a draft, playing across his face and throwing his eyes into shadow.

Harry shifted, uncomfortable. Malfoy might have defected to their side, and they might not be actively trying to throttle each other, but that didn’t mean Harry thought he was trustworthy, or wanted to spend time with him. All things considered, Harry thought he would probably feel much better if Malfoy had accidentally walked over a large cliff as a small child.

He fidgeted. Maybe he’d go offer to help with the research. It meant sitting in front of a book, trying to focus on the dull words and ignore Ron and Hermione’s increasingly annoying whispering, but it was better than sitting here with Malfoy. When he stood up, though, Malfoy looked at him with a question in his eyes.

“I thought I’d go help Ron and Hermione do research,” he excused himself, and Malfoy raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“The only thing those two are interested in researching tonight,” he said, smirking, “is each other, and I doubt you’d be allowed to join in.” Malfoy tilted his head and added thoughtfully, “That is, unless Granger’s kinkier than I thought.”

Harry sat back down hard in his chair and scowled. “Watch it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows went up even higher. “Even if they let me, which again I doubt, who says I’d want to?”

Harry sputtered. “That’s… what… You’re impossible!” He shoved his chair back again and stalked over to fill the kettle. Maybe if he made tea he could ignore Malfoy and the disturbing pictures the git was planting in his brain.

Malfoy stretched and leaned back. “Get me some biscuits while you’re up.”

“I’m not your servant,” Harry said heatedly. “Do I have to remind you that you’re a guest in _my_ house? Get your own damn biscuits.”

“Touchy,” remarked Malfoy in an amused tone, turning to look at him. Harry slammed the kettle down with a bit more force than necessary. “The idea of a Granger-Weasel love fest got you all hot and bothered?”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, aghast. He turned around, narrowing his eyes. “You’re a pervert,” he accused.

Malfoy shrugged. “I’m a Slytherin,” he said by way of explanation.

Harry turned back to the kettle. Blasted thing was taking far too long to boil water. Maybe it was broken. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, making the space between his shoulder blades itch.

“I thought Slytherins were only good at potions and grabbing power,” Harry finally remarked in what he hoped was an off-hand manner, trying to break the awkward silence.

Malfoy chuckled softly. “Oh no, Potter. Those are just the things we’re _best_ at.” Harry turned around and Malfoy regarded him, eyes glittering. “We’re good at all kinds of things. Most of which,” he added, “would break your poor delicate nerves.”

“Delicate?” Harry said with a snort. “I may be many things, Malfoy, but I’m certainly not delicate.”

Malfoy gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Harry concentrated on ignoring Malfoy and willed the kettle to boil. Eventually, he heard the chair creak as Malfoy turned back around. 

“At least pour me a cup of tea while you’re up and fixing it.”

Harry sighed and went about pulling out the tea things, purposefully choosing the chipped mug for Malfoy because he knew Malfoy hated it and would undoubtedly make some kind of withering remark about the state of his china.

He was looking for the sugar bowl when the kettle started screaming. Malfoy jumped and swore as Harry dove across the sink, fumbling to turn off the heat. The Blacks, apparently, had been fond of enchanting their possessions to make as much noise they could, as horribly as possible. It was probably genetic, Harry thought, remembering Sirius as he wrestled with the kettle, which was trying valiantly to jump into the dishwater. And Malfoy always said the same thing when Harry forgot about the tea kettle’s unfortunate tendency to shriek bloody murder.

“Merlin, Potter, if you can’t control your own possessions, perhaps you should sign them over to a more deserving Black descendent.”

“Dream on, Malfoy,” Harry gritted out, winning the battle and pouring hot water out of the once more quiescent kettle.

He found the sugar bowl and carried it over to the table with the mugs, dropping into his chair with a sigh and shoving Malfoy’s tea across the table. Malfoy looked at the chipped mug with disgust, but said nothing.

“Sugar?” Harry asked, dumping a spoonful into his own tea. Malfoy wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“I prefer my tea to actually taste like tea, thanks.”

Harry shrugged, examining his mug and considering the merits of another scoop or three. He jerked his head in the general direction of the sink. “Milk’s over there if you want it.”

“Only peasants put milk in their tea.” Malfoy picked up his mug, blowing softly on the hot liquid. “I prefer my tea pure.”

Harry snorted. “Right. Like your blood.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry let the jibe slide, pretending to be utterly absorbed in his tea. Silence descended on them again, filling the corners of the room, making the dimly-lit kitchen seem vast and dark.

It always seemed to be dark in Grimmauld Place, thought Harry, as if the house itself strained the warmth out of the light. Even at noon during midsummer, the sunlight that filtered past the curtains was weak and thin, cooling rather than warming the rooms.

Malfoy wasn’t drinking his tea, Harry noticed, glancing over. He was sitting over it, wan and sort of hunched, tracing the grain of the table with his long, aristocratic fingers. There were bruised-looking circles under his eyes, and Harry wondered if he’d been sleeping lately.

He watched surreptitiously as Malfoy raised his left hand to scrub at his face. His sleeve fell back as he did, exposing a slender wrist, and Harry found his gaze riveted to it. Malfoy always wore long sleeves, and was careful about how far he let them slide up on his arms; careful to hide the Mark that Harry had yet to see but knew was there.

All things considered, Malfoy looked exhausted, _vulnerable_ , even, sitting in the pale lamplight, staring down into a cup of untouched tea.

Harry shifted in his seat, taking a hasty sip of tea and burning his mouth in the process. Malfoy wasn’t supposed to look like that. Malfoy was supposed to be arrogant and insufferable and evil and _sneering_. He wasn’t supposed to look defeated. He certainly wasn’t supposed to look like a tired teenager caught in a war he hadn’t started. That was how _Harry_ felt; Malfoy wasn’t allowed to feel the same way. 

Well, Harry amended, Malfoy could feel that way if he wanted to. When you looked at things, that’s what they all were, really. But Malfoy wasn’t supposed to _look_ like he felt like that.

Sometimes, Harry thought, watching the other boy’s hands again as he traced the whorls of the grain in the wooden table, sometimes it seemed like the world would have been a simpler place if Draco Malfoy had never defected to their side.

“Potter.”

Harry looked up quickly to see Malfoy’s mask firmly back in place.

“You’re staring at me.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry blustered, embarrassed. “I wasn’t! I was just… looking at the table!” He never watched Malfoy; in fact, he didn’t even look at him unless he had to, and if Hermione thought otherwise, well, she was just wrong for once and needed to admit it to herself.

“Yes,” Malfoy drawled. “This extremely interesting table which you have had the opportunity to study every day for the past two months. How could I be such an imbecile? Of course you were staring at the table.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“It’s perfectly alright to admit it,” Malfoy continued, dropping sarcasm in favor of a more lofty tone. “It’s a well-known fact that there are many people in this world who find me irresistibly attractive. You are not alone.”

Harry glared. “In your dreams.”

Malfoy smiled. “No, Potter,” he said with all the smugness of a card player about to lay down the winning hand. “In yours.”

Sometimes, Harry really wished that Narcissa Malfoy had drowned her son at birth.

“You’re such a git.”

“Takes one to know one,” Malfoy retorted.

Harry gulped another swallow of tea with a scowl. Malfoy studied him, his look calculating.

“What?” Harry demanded when the silence grew uncomfortable.

“Just thinking. Not that you’d have much experience with that.”

_Christ_ , but Malfoy was a pain in the arse. “Stop looking at me.”

“Why? You were staring at me.”

“No I wasn’t!”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Potter, you were. Is this another thing about being the Chosen One? You can look at other people, but they can’t look at you?”

Harry slammed his mug down. “No! I don’t… Look, I just hate it when people stare at me.” Why was he telling Malfoy this? he wondered. Malfoy didn’t matter, Malfoy didn’t need to know. He told himself firmly to stay calm. If Malfoy wanted a fight, Harry wasn’t about to give him one, even if he did know exactly which buttons to push to drive Harry right to the edge of sanity. Harry suspected it was something all Slytherins learned from their infancy.

“Could have fooled me,” Malfoy said coolly, not looking away. “You used to lap it all up. All those articles in the Prophet, the screaming fans…”

“I never wanted screaming fans,” Harry snapped. “I just wanted to be normal.”

“You seemed pretty happy about it when one of those fans was the Weaselette.”

Harry promptly forgot his vow to avoid taking Malfoy’s bait. “Shut up,” he snarled, gripping his mug tightly. “Leave Ginny out of this. She deserves better.” She deserved better than everything she ever got, Harry thought, feeling the familiar misery surface through his anger.

_Just drop it_ , he thought, glaring at Malfoy.

Malfoy, damn him, had been watching him too carefully. “Better than you?” he inquired.

Harry shoved his chair back, gripping the edge of the table, fighting off the urge to just choke the blond and have done with it. “Lay off, Malfoy. It’s none of your business.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

Harry felt like screaming. “Fine. Yes. Damn it,” he answered tightly. “Yes, better than me. I didn’t deserve her.” He remembered her face, fierce and innocent, turned up to his, remembered closing his eyes for the kiss and pretending… He stood up, toppling his chair, and crossed to the sink to avoid looking at Malfoy, who appeared to be _thinking_ again, damn him.

The silence was fleeting.

“Was this some kind of self-denial hero thing, Potter?” Malfoy demanded. “Because if that’s the case, I’ll have to hurt you.”

“No,” Harry said shortly, without turning around. He could see Malfoy’s reflection in the window over the sink, warped slightly by the uneven glass. “I just couldn’t be who she thought I was.”

Malfoy regarded him silently. Harry shifted under his gaze, but refused to talk any more. He didn’t need to know about the thoughts raging around inside Harry’s head. Why did it always end up like this between them? he wondered. Malfoy was always pushing, digging around in Harry’s skull for his most vulnerable spots. Harry wondered if he’d taken a special course on driving people to madness.

“Did you—” Malfoy began, but Harry had had enough of the interrogation.

“Leave it,” he said, shutting his eyes.

“Honestly, did you think—”

“ _Leave it_ , Malfoy.” Didn’t he ever shut up? Harry wondered, gripping the counter tightly. Couldn’t Malfoy see that this was a sore spot and just _leave it alone_? He’d been getting along perfectly well avoiding thinking about Ginny; couldn’t Malfoy see that bringing it up wasn’t going to help?

“Don’t think you can bully me into silence, Potter. I want to know if—”

Something in Harry snapped, and he whirled around, leaping at Malfoy blindly, with no thought except to make him _stop talking_.

Malfoy made an undignified sort of “oomph” sound as Harry tackled him to the floor and punched him in the mouth. He struggled to free himself, but he was tangled in his chair and Harry had the upper hand. He easily caught Malfoy’s wrists and secured them with one hand, using his other to hit Malfoy again. Malfoy twisted out of the way, knocking Harry off-balance and freeing himself, staggering upright. Harry tried to stand up as well, but Malfoy kicked him hard in the ribs, making him sink to the floor again. When Malfoy tried to kick him again, however, he grabbed his foot and yanked, bringing the blond crashing back down.

Harry got in a few more good punches, but then Malfoy _bit_ him – Malfoy always fought like such a girl, he thought fleetingly – and he cracked his head on the chair trying to get free and stars exploded behind his eyelids. He swore, blinking furiously as he tried to clear his vision. He didn’t see Malfoy’s fist until it connected with his cheek, knocking him backwards again. He tasted blood. Harry could feel that Malfoy was trying to get a better grip on his arms to hold him down, but the other boy was an amateur compared to Dudley and a good fifty pounds lighter than the youngest Dursley besides. He gave a heave and flipped them both over until he was the one pinning Malfoy to the floor facedown.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and Malfoy lifted his head up slightly from the floor.

“Go ahead, Potter,” he said, an edge to his words. “Hit me. But it’s not really me you want to hurt. I’m not the one you want to see bleeding on the floor.”

Harry blinked, the scene sinking into him at last. The kitchen was a mess; chairs toppled, the floor streaked with someone’s blood. He looked down in horror at Malfoy, who was still struggling to escape, albeit feebly. There was blood in his hair.

Harry scrambled up in horror, backing away. He’d seen Malfoy covered in blood before, crumpling like a paper puppet because of _Harry’s_ spell…

Malfoy sat up as Harry backed up into the wall and nearly fell. A bruise was already surfacing near Malfoy’s eye, and he prodded it tentatively.

“Fuck,” he said. “What was _that_?”

Harry shook his head mutely. He couldn’t tell Malfoy; couldn’t tell him that he was sorry for a curse cast over a year and a lifetime before. Malfoy wouldn’t believe him, anyway. Harry had meant it, in that moment, had meant to hurt Malfoy right until the other boy had hit the floor and the fact of his utter mortality had hit Harry in the face. He couldn’t tell him he hadn’t meant to break his nose when Malfoy defected, either; at the time he’d only felt a fierce, desperate sort of satisfaction that even if the world was going to hell, he could punch Malfoy.

The world was still going to hell, but he wasn’t sure he could punch Malfoy anymore.

Malfoy got slowly to his feet, testing various joints and bones to make sure everything was still working. Harry felt inexplicably glad that he hadn’t hit Malfoy harder.

“Happily for your sake, Potter,” Malfoy said, sounding suspiciously calm, “Malfoys do not break easily.” He looked thoughtful. “However, there is one more thing…”

He stepped closer to Harry, still frozen and shocked, and punched him solidly in the gut. Harry doubled over, falling onto Malfoy and clutching at his robes to keep himself upright.

Malfoy took exceptional offense to this.

“What the hell, Potter?” he snarled, taking hold of Harry’s robes in turn and slamming him back into the wall. “I can’t even exact revenge on you without you mauling me.”

Harry looked at him, all hard angles and pale fierceness and grey eyes ringed with shadows because the war was going to kill them all before they even got to battle.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Malfoy swore eloquently, and kissed him.

It was not a good kiss. It was, Harry thought, rather like Malfoy himself: sharp and pointy and slightly bitter. His mind seemed to have detached completely from his body, and seemed to be stuck on an unfortunate loop. Malfoy lips! his brain gibbered hysterically. Malfoy lips are touching me!

It was when Malfoy bit his lip that his mind finally reconnected and he jerked back, slamming his head into the wall and unleashing a fresh burst of stars behind his eyelids. Malfoy leaped backwards, releasing him with a start, and Harry squinted at him through his watering eyes, rubbing the large goose-egg rising on the back of his head.

“Fuck!” said Malfoy, wild-eyed, and then said it again. Before Harry could open his mouth to ask – quite reasonably, he thought – what the bloody, buggering hell was going on, he bolted, and moments later Harry heard him pounding up the stairs. A door slammed somewhere in the house.

In the thick silence after the echoes had faded, Harry slid slowly to the floor in the dark kitchen, feeling empty and oddly shattered.


	3. Interlude: A Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/6027.html#cutid1). (16 March 2008)

Harry moved cautiously through the halls of Grimmauld Place, avoiding the loudest of the floorboards with the ease of long practice. Peering around the corner into the kitchen, he sighed in relief. There was no one around; he could get something to eat before going back to the books and parchments he’d squirreled away in his room. Not that he was hiding from anyone, he thought to himself sternly as he crouched down to open a cabinet. It was just that less contact with... other people... meant he could focus on his research.

“Hey, mate.”

Harry jumped and swore, getting caught in a minor avalanche of biscuit boxes and nearly hitting his still-tender skull on the cabinet door. He struggled around to see his best friend standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

“You alright there?” Ron asked, walking forward to help him up. 

Harry grasped his outstretched hand and gave him a slightly embarrassed look. “Yeah. You just startled me.”

Ron chuckled. “Looked like you thought Voldemort was creeping up behind you or something.”

_Not Voldemort, exactly_ , thought Harry, but smiled weakly back at Ron, who helped himself to a box of biscuits and sat on the kitchen table to open it, his long legs dangling.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” Ron said conversationally, munching away and studying Harry closely.

“I... er, well...” Harry began, flustered. “I’ve been pretty busy, with researching and all...”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me, mate. Hermione’s got me looking at books about Ravenclaw night and day. It’s driving me spare. But why don’t you bring your research to the library? I mean, it makes the slogging easier if you can see that your friends are slogging along just as hard.” He paused, considering. “And Malfoy’s almost stopped being a stupid pointy git, most of the time.” Shooting a furtive look at Harry, he added quickly: “Don’t tell anyone I said that. Malfoy would have a field day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry replied faintly, leaning back on the counter. Ron declaring that _Malfoy_ wasn’t that bad probably meant the Apocalypse was coming, frozen devils and flying pigs and all. 

“Even so,” Ron said, examining the inside of the biscuit box critically, “he’s still Malfoy, and you’re still my best mate, and if he’s been bothering you, well...” He shrugged significantly, looking back up at Harry. “Did something happen? Things were pretty quiet there for a while, but you’ve been acting a bit strange lately.”

Harry briefly envisioned telling Ron about his... encounter... with Malfoy in the kitchen, and winced. “No,” he said, studying the dirt under his fingernails and keeping his voice level. “I’m fine.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Bollocks,” he said, and Harry fervently wished for the days before Ron and Hermione started spending every waking moment together and Ron started getting _perceptive_.

Ron had a point, he mused, trying to avoid his friend’s gaze. Malfoy had mostly stopped being purposefully obnoxious to both Ron and Hermione. That left Harry as the one remaining victim, apparently, as Malfoy showed no sign of letting up with his life goal of driving Harry off the deep end. But, Harry realized with a start, he didn’t particularly mind Malfoy’s antics in that regard, since mostly he recognized them for what they were.

Sometimes, though, Malfoy was completely mad.

Sighing, Harry picked at the biscuit in front of him, slowly building a pile of crumbs on the counter. “It’s really nothing, Ron,” he said. “Just Malfoy being Malfoy, I guess.” Even if Malfoy _has_ suddenly gone insane, he added silently, crushing the last bit of biscuit into the granite countertop vindictively.

Ron snorted, looking supremely unconvinced. Then he brightened. “I could always hex him for you,” he said hopefully.

Harry shook his head. “I can handle it,” he replied. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Any time, mate,” Ron said, hopping down and clapping him on the shoulder. 

Harry watched moodily as Ron filled a glass with water and took a swig. It had been easy enough for _Ron_ , he thought. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed, and maybe sometimes he was an insensitive berk, and maybe it had taken him years to figure himself out about Hermione, but at least he’d _figured it out_ , right? He’d never had all these doubts and... and arguments with himself. Hermione hadn’t exactly made her feelings secret by that point, either. Besides, she wasn’t an absurdly inbred, insane ex-Death Eater.

He pretended to be utterly absorbed in his pile of biscuit crumbs when Ron set down his glass.

“Later, mate,” he said, stretching. “Hermione and me are in the library if you want to act like a real person again.” Harry made a vague sort of farewell hand gesture and Ron headed for the door, crossing out of Harry’s line of sight. 

“Weasley,” Harry heard a terse voice say from the hall. He froze.

“Malfoy,” Ron acknowledged, no less shortly. His footsteps paused briefly before continuing on, the creaking floorboards growing fainter as Harry concentrated furiously on the bits of biscuit on the counter in front of him, willing them to spontaneously combust or turn into Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder or do _something_ other than just sit there, sad and crumbled.

He could hear Malfoy moving, walking into the room, and he waited for Malfoy to say something. The silence stretched on between them, tense and weighted with the unspoken.

Malfoy was going to speak, he knew it. Any second now, he was going to explain what the hell was going on and then Harry would be able to breathe again and maybe function in a somewhat normal way. The heat must be on, he thought distractedly, tugging at the neckline of his shirt, which had begun to pinch strangely. Ron’s words kept chasing themselves around in his head, mutating as they ran. _He’s stopped being a pointy git,_ ghost-Ron said, _but you’ve been acting strange, mate._

Still Malfoy said nothing. Harry concentrated on becoming a statue. Maybe, he thought, if he stayed really, really still, Malfoy would just go away. Maybe if he didn’t move, the thoughts pounding around in his skull would settle and gather dust contentedly.

Merlin, when was Malfoy going to _speak_?

Ghost-Ron reached a crescendo, and Harry gave up. “Look, Malfoy—” he started, turning suddenly around.

“Listen, Potter—” Malfoy began at the same time.

They both stopped, flustered.

“You go,” said Harry, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

Malfoy shook his head. “No, you first.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, making the collar of his robes slip sideways distractingly.

Harry pulled his gaze away from the line of Malfoy’s collarbone and coughed. 

“It’s nothing, really, I just...” He trailed off, his thoughts in disarray.

Malfoy waited, impassive.

“I wanted to say,” Harry finally said, screwing up his courage, “that I think, maybe, I really... that is, I don’t think I actually want to kill you in your sleep, most of the time.” 

He looked up in time to see Malfoy blink once. Twice.

“You don’t want to kill me?” he asked.

“No?” Harry offered tentatively, then thought he should emphasize the clarifier. “Most of the time.”

Malfoy considered this pronouncement for a few moments. “Potter.”

Harry studied his socks intently, knowing exactly what was coming next. He suddenly realized that he wanted nothing more than to sink through the earth until he surfaced in Australia. He’d heard the outback was very nice this time of year.

“You’re psychotic.”

It was Harry’s turn to blink in confusion. He’d been expecting – well, to be honest he’d been expecting some sort of Malfoy explosion. Instead, Malfoy seemed to have lost temporary control of his brain. Harry thought he probably would’ve gotten a bigger reaction out of the blond if he’d announced that the sky was looking rather blue that morning.

“That’s it?”

“What’s it?” Malfoy’s mouth tightened a fraction, just for a moment, before his face smoothed out once more.

“You’re just going to stand there and tell me I’m psychotic?”

“You _are_ psychotic.”

Harry tugged at his bangs in frustration. Malfoy, he figured, could probably drive even Kingsley ‘Nothing-will-ever-faze-me’ Shacklebolt insane. “I’m not psychotic! And anyway, that’s not the point, Malfoy.”

“Your psychosis is always the point,” Malfoy retorted, but the words lacked their usual vicious bite.

Harry glared at him anyway and changed his tactic. “It’s _not_ the point. Aren’t you supposed to ask _why_ I don’t want to kill you anymore?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. Harry thought in irritation that he probably practiced his eyebrow-arching in the mirror daily.

“I didn’t realize it was that important,” Malfoy said in an offhand tone, giving Harry a supremely bored look. “But,” he added slyly, “even if I was curious, Potter, I’m sure I could find out why _without_ asking you directly.” His gaze slid off Harry and landed on the jumbled boxes lying next to him. His eyes lit up. “Are those biscuits?”

Harry nodded distractedly as he tried furiously to reorganize his retort. Malfoy was unbalanced, he decided, and his insanity was obviously contagious. He watched in trepidation as Malfoy descended delightedly on the unsuspecting biscuit boxes. When he caught a whiff of Malfoy’s cologne – something earthy and altogether Malfoy-ish – he decided he had tempted fate enough for one day. He needed to be out of the range of Malfoy’s craziness, needed to be able to think clearly.

He was preparing to flee when Malfoy looked up from the biscuits, grinning, and made it impossible for Harry to callously abandon him to his madness and the strange, peculiar wiles of biscuits.


	4. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/6356.html#cutid1). (17 March 2008)

_I would have kept you, forever, but we had to sever_  
It ended for both of us, faster than a  
Kill off this thinking, it's starting to sink in  
I'm losing control now, and without you I can finally see 

People kept telling him it would be easier to bear with time. Shows just how much they know, he thinks bitterly, looking up at the stars. He’s taken to spending most of his time on the roof of the building where his flat is, lying on his back and staring at the sky. Being inside feels too claustrophobic; it’s as if the walls are waiting for him to stop moving so they can crush him. Outside is better. He can breathe, and watch the clouds and stars move by, and stop thinking. It is getting easier and easier to lose himself, to shut his brain down and the memories out.

It doesn’t always work. Sometimes the memories refuse to leave.

If only he hadn’t been so far away. He should have stayed with him, he thinks angrily. They should have stuck together. Then maybe it wouldn’t have happened the way it did – he could have been saved, he _should_ have been saved.

_If anyone had to die, it should have been me_ , he thinks again. _He was supposed to live_. The bitter thought is familiar. Sometimes he feels like he’s spent a hundred years treading the same doleful guilty circle in his mind; like he’s slowly wearing a track around memories he never wants to think about again but can’t bring himself to forget.

Near the end they’d started talking, a bit, about after the war, and he’d mentioned – in an appropriately casual, off-hand way – that perhaps they could live together. Not as anything more than friends, of course, he’d hastened to add. Neither of them had wanted to stay in Grimmauld Place a moment more than was absolutely necessary, but he wasn’t quite sure how _he_ would react; he’d been ready to laugh it off as a joke if it didn’t go over well. To his surprise, _he_ seemed enthusiastic about the idea; he’d felt a secret little bubble of hope grow in his chest.

That bubble has long since disappeared. He rubs his forehead distractedly and shoves the memory back into the darkness again. It’s been a long time since he’s felt any sort of hope.

Hope ended on the night when his fragile world came to a sudden end. He’d seen it across the battlefield, seen _him_ crumple and fall, and he’d run, forgetting that the fighting hadn’t ended, screaming _his_ name. But it had already been too late. He was always too late; always a moment behind. It was why he’d never been able to save anyone.

_Cassiopeia_ , he tells himself desperately. _And from there, find_ … But he can’t see the stars, only the dead. He can smell the stench of battle: the peculiar burning smell of too much death, too many curses flying through the air and hitting true.

It was the last time he’d ever spoken _his_ name aloud.

He lurches upright and eyes the edge of the building. He’ll need something higher than that, though, he knows, if he wants to actually do more than get a free ticket to St. Mungo’s.

He walks over to the short railing at the edge, still remembering. He didn’t cry at the funeral. Everyone had half-expected him to, but he hadn’t. It had worried them that he hadn’t shown any emotion after that last battle, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. So he’d sat there, staring straight ahead as someone droned a eulogy and the world dissolved around him, fading into nothingness.

_Enough_ , he tells himself firmly. When the long fall to the street starts looking attractive, he knows it is time to change the scenery. Slowly, he turns and drags himself inside.

Climbing down the stairs, he runs into a surprise on his doorstep. Hermione Granger-Weasley stands there, looking slightly anxious but determined. He stops short.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

She stands her ground. “I have something for you. And…” She hesitates. “We worry about you, you know.”

He snorts. “Yeah, everyone pity the helpless shut-in,” he mutters under his breath.

She pretends not to hear him, but her lips purse. “Are you going to invite me in?”

She isn’t going to go away, not without completing her mission, he knows that. With a sigh, he unlocks the door to his flat and opens it, letting her go in first. It’s been a while since her last visit. After the war, after he’d closed himself off and shut the world out, they’d all taken it upon themselves to visit him in turns. Hermione had visited the most often, until he’d lost his temper and threw her out the door, slamming it behind her. He hasn’t seen her – hadn’t seen anyone – for months.

It appears as though she’s decided to forget about that particular incident. She walks briskly into the flat, pursing her lips at the collection of Firewhisky bottles on the floor. He doesn’t tell her that it’s been over a month since his last drink. He doesn’t need it anymore to feel numb — staring at the sky until he can block out all conscious thought works just as well, and he’s less likely to break things.

He’d been drinking the last time she’d come to his flat. It had been the anniversary of the last terrible battle, the end of the world, and the Wizarding world had been celebrating while he mourned, the pain of loss still sharp and near. He’d taken to the bottle to numb the edge, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d wished only for oblivion to take him away from the sounds of fireworks and joyful yells. Unfortunately for that particular plan, Hermione had arrived before he’d managed to drink himself into a stupor.

She’d been furious, he remembers, angrier than he’d ever seen her before, but he hadn’t fully appreciated that at the time. She’d Vanished the Firewhisky stash he’d been working on, her voice dangerously quiet as she accused him. He’d raged at her, threatened her, screamed and stormed up and down the flat, and when she’d tried to Stun him he’d thrown her out.

He’d woken up the next morning with what had to be the worst hangover ever experienced, his flat in shambles, and a fresh layer of guilt, but he’d never apologized. A few owls had come with messages at first, but he’d burned the letters before opening them. Eventually, the owls had stopped coming, and the attempted Floo calls had become less and less frequent. He’d actually begun to think that the world had done him a favor and forgotten about him. He should have known better.

Now, Hermione investigates his kitchen as he slumps down onto the sofa. She won’t find much there, he thinks dully, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps some old milk that’s starting to grow things, a few take away containers. Dirty dishes are everywhere; he can never work up the energy or the motivation to wash them. She comes out again, the beginnings of a familiar scowl forming on her face.

“Do you ever clean this place?” she asks him, hands on her hips.

He looks up at her from the sofa. “No,” he answers frankly.

She goes back into the kitchen, muttering, and he hears the squeak of the tap and the rattle of dishes. So they’re going to play _that_ game: he will lie here and try to maintain a safe distance from the pain that lurks just around the corner of his head, and she will be all careful kindness and persuasion and slowly destroy any protection he’s managed to build up. He closes his eyes.

After a time – it might be a few minutes or several hours, time seems to flow differently now – Hermione reemerges, dusting her hands. He keeps his eyes shut. Maybe if she thinks he’s sleeping she’ll just leave, maybe…

“I know you’re faking.”

Damn. He pulls himself up, looking at her over the back of the couch. She must see something in his face, because hers softens.

“We really are worried about you,” she says. “You never go out, you never answer when we call or owl. You just sit here all day in this mess. We’re still your friends, you know.”

He tries not to look at her hand as she talks. Her right side is fine, though she lost that hand in the final battle – war wounds he can deal with. What he can’t bear to see is the band that sparkles on her left hand. He can’t look at that visible reminder proclaiming that she’s moved on, moved past her own losses. One of the most successful witches in history, the papers say. Some claim she’s rebuilt the wizarding world almost single-handedly; many already have her marked as a potential candidate for Minister. All that and a family, too, he thinks bitterly. He’d been invited to the wedding and the christenings, of course, but he hadn’t gone. He hasn’t yet been able to bring himself to face the entire Weasley clan.

Hermione is still talking, looking at him almost pleadingly. “You need to stop living in the past. Come to dinner with us, do something other than sit here and wallow…”

He stiffens. She doesn’t see it. He isn’t living in the past—how can you live somewhere you can’t bear to think about? Standing, he walks away from her to the window, staring at the street below. Her voice rises.

“I’m looking after your best interests! You’ve got to start living again; it’s not fair to you _or_ to him!”

He whirls on her, and when she flinches he can see that she knows she’s pushed too far. “What do you know about it?” he snarls. “What did you ever know about him? About me? Nothing!”

Hermione takes a step towards him. The glimmer of hope she walked in with is gone, but she’s determined to make one last try. Sometimes, when he’s feeling less than charitable, he wonders if Hermione has ever admitted defeat in anything. “Let me help you…”

He turns back to the window, closing her out once more. “You want to help me? Leave me alone.” He hears himself as if from a long distance. His voice is cold.

He knows she’s still standing there, trying to think of something else to say, but they’ve had this conversation too many times. He hears her move away. She opens the door and pauses.

“They found this, going through his things. It’s addressed to you. I would have given it to you before this, but, well...” She trails off, and her quick footsteps come back towards him. “At least _think_ about what I said,” she says softly, then turns and leaves. He hears the door shut after her and the quiet pop of her Apparition moments later.

He lets a few minutes pass, trying to resist, but it’s impossible. He has to know what it is. He spins around, eyes searching for whatever it was she left.

There, on the side table. An envelope with his name on it. He crosses the room quickly, almost at a run. He rips the envelope open, and a piece of paper flutters to the floor. It has no signature, but he knows that writing like he knows his own, even now. He snatches it up and bends to read it, drinking in the scrawl greedily.

_I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow_ , it begins, and it’s harder to read these words – _his_ words – than he thought it would be, but there’s no way he can put the parchment down now, so he sets his jaw and continues. _I know we’re going to win. I have to believe that, have to believe that we’re going to serve this snake his just desserts, but I’m not stupid. I know the price of victory is high, and I don’t want to think about just how high the cost might climb before we’re done with this._

_You’re sleeping beside me now, the worry lines on your face smoothed out for once. If the thought of victory gets me through the days, you are the only thing keeping me sane in this chaos. When I’m ready to crack, to give up and go home, a look at you reminds me what I’m really fighting this war for._

_Sure, there are all these shiny ideals hanging around, but the real answer is much simpler. The sooner the war ends, the sooner you’ll be safe, and the sooner… well. To be honest (and selfish too, I suppose), the sooner I’ll get to spend all my time with you, just you, without worrying about a crazed madman hunting us down. But I guess if you’re reading this, the happy ending we deserve didn’t happen._

_Don’t blame yourself for whatever happens to me._

_I’ll be waiting for you, when your day finally comes, and we’ll see about eternity._

He clutches at the table, but misses as his legs collapse beneath him. Sinking to the floor, the words blur before his eyes, and he presses the letter to his face, trembling, as if that will bring him closer to the dead. His shoulders shake with sobs held in too long.

He’s shut himself down for the past four years, avoided his thoughts as often as he could. But here in front of him now are _his_ words, laid out in smooth lettering only a little smudged from the wetness on his face. He can’t block out what’s black and white; it fills the dead echoing silence of his soul with a whispering.

He does not feel the soft brush of air against his shoulder, the touch of wind that could almost be mistaken for a caress.


	5. Into the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/8068.html#cutid1). (12 April 2008)

__

Run away, run away, I'll attack  
Run away, run away, go change yourself  
Run away, run away, now I'll attack  
I'll attack…

Draco tried to remember to take deep, cleansing breaths, the way his mother had taught him. It was night, and he and Harry – _Potter_ , he reminded himself sharply – were camped in a hole. A dirty, muddy _hole_ in the _ground_ and sweet Merlin, he was going to hyperventilate and go completely mad and the enemy would find them and then the world as they knew it would end and it would all be his fault and the fault of this filthy, filthy hole. He was fairly positive he had dirt in his _hair_ , and it’d probably take at least five washings to get it clean again.

He did not stop to consider that maybe he was thinking about dirt to keep from thinking about the wizard sitting next to him. The black-haired, scar-faced wizard who he’d be facing almost-certain death with when it got light enough out to see what they were doing, and whose body heat he could feel from a full foot away.

Bloody hell, he thought. Har – Potter must have been an oven in a former life. He sneaked a look over at the other boy. Potter sat, hunched over, staring at the tiny fire they’d started for light and warmth with a sick look on his face, and Draco remembered that whatever he had to deal with in the morning, Potter was facing something ten times worse.

As much as he hated Potter (and a small voice deep down inside him that he tried very hard to ignore kept questioning the strength of that hatred), he couldn’t let him sit there all night looking as if he’d been force-fed a bucket of Blast-Ended Skrewts. There was obviously only one thing to do. To keep Harry Potter, appointed Wizarding Savior, on just this side of sanity so he could do his saintly duty and deliver them all from evil, he would need to employ all the finesse and careful manipulation skills of a Malfoy. He took a cleansing breath and turned to look nonchalantly over at Potter.

“I hope you’re going to brush your hair before tomorrow. It looks like barn owls have been nesting in it.”

Potter looked at him as if _he_ was the crazy one, and Draco clamped his mouth shut. Apparently, he reflected, there must be a Malfoy rule somewhere that decreed they could go to their deaths only after proving themselves irreparably ridiculous.

To his surprise, though, Potter started making a noise which could have been mistaken for laughter, if it hadn’t sounded so much like he was choking on one of the Skrewts.

“Leave it to you, Malfoy,” he finally managed, “to think about my _hair_ instead of our impending _doom_.” He turned to face Draco. “Have you ever seen my hair looking anything _other_ than this?”

“That’s no excuse,” Draco replied primly. “Maybe if you actually touched it with a brush, Voldemort would be stunned to death.”

“Maybe. And maybe _you’ve_ been out in the woods too long.”

Draco smiled faintly before the present came rushing back to him, and he dropped his head back against the wall. They were going to face Voldemort tomorrow. It was all really going to happen. _Shit._

He looked back over at Potter. The Blast-Ended Screwt look had returned. Maybe they wouldn’t have to go through with the plan, he mused, stifling the nervous laughter bubbling up inside him. If things kept going the way they seemed to be, they’d probably kill themselves before dawn ever came. 

“Potter.” 

The other boy grunted in response. Draco refrained from making comments on the intelligence of people who communicated with grunts.

“What are you going to do? After the war, I mean.”

Potter looked at him in surprise. “After the war?”

Perhaps Potter had been dropped on the head as a small child. Actually, Draco decided, that would explain a lot. “Yes, Potter,” he said with a look of long-suffering patience. “After you go out and do what you’re supposed to and grind Snakeface into the dirt; after all the Rita Skeeters have collectively given themselves a stroke over The Boy Who Defeated Evil Incarnate; after the hordes of raving Death Eaters are replaced by hordes of raving fans. What are you going to do?”

Harry – _Potter!_ he told himself fiercely – didn’t answer, turning back to staring at the wall. Draco resigned himself to a long night of heroically brooding silence and a slow descent to madness.

He nearly jumped when Potter finally spoke, voice hesitant.

“I… hadn’t really thought that far ahead.” He paused, then, voice even softer, added, “I guess I never actually believed I’d get to see life after the war.”

Draco stared at him. Not thought past the war? Potter could sit there, brooding about imminent death, ignoring any happy fantasies about life after Voldemort, and _not_ go completely barking mad? At least, he amended, no madder than he already was.

He carefully avoided thinking about the second sentence. Some things, he knew, were better left unexamined.

“Something is wrong with you,” Draco told him seriously. Potter gave him a look. “No, listen, something is wrong with your head. Must be something to do with that great big stupid scar you’ve got.” Potter gave him another, more deeply un-amused look, but he ignored it, pressing onward.

“You must have had _some_ kind of thought in your brain about what you want to do afterwards. I can’t believe you’re telling me you’ve never entertained visions of moving into a perfect little house with –” He cut himself off abruptly, swallowing _the Weaselette_ before the words could escape. It had, after all, been made inordinately clear to him that that was not a subject open to discussion, and he had absolutely no desire for another broken nose.

“– me,” he said instead unthinkingly as his mind scrambled around for a way out of the misstep.

Potter’s head snapped around so fast Draco thought he might’ve given himself whiplash, staring at Draco with those thrice-cursed eyes of his wide in shock, and Draco knew he was in trouble.

“You know, I’d have to talk my parents around, but you could have your own wing of the Manor,” he said, thinking frantically on the fly. “For, you know, your harems and dancing girls and all the other many gifts you will receive once you’re king of the world.”

Harry slumped back slightly again, and Draco breathed a private sigh of relief; it appeared there would be no bodily injury this time.

“I’m not going to be king of the world,” Harry said, picking at a fingernail.

“They’ll make you king of England, at the very least,” Draco pointed out, feeling that this was actually probably not very far off of the mark.

“I’m not going to be king of _anywhere_ ,” Harry said, with just a touch of heat in his voice. “And I certainly don’t want any harems or… or dancing girls.”

“Fine, then,” Draco replied, feeling somewhat snubbed. He sighed and let the conversation lapse, looking up at the sky instead. It was dark and starless; the clouds that had been threatening all evening must have moved in, he thought dismally. If it started to rain, he silently assured whoever might be listening, there would be hell to pay.

They sat in silence for what felt like ages – centuries, perhaps – and Draco tried to resist both the hysterical thoughts about his approaching doom and the urge to look at Harry’s profile, thrown into shadow by the dim light of the fire.

“What I’d like, I think,” Potter said suddenly, giving Draco a start, “is to get a flat somewhere – somewhere quiet – and fly. Play Quidditch, maybe. Oliver said once he could get me into Puddlemere easily enough, though I’m not sure I want to play professionally.” He paused, struggling slightly with the words. Draco waited. “And maybe…” He turned towards Draco, but didn’t look at him, staring instead somewhere behind Draco’s right ear. “I know you have the Manor and all, but would you consider, maybe… living with me?”

Potter looked at him uncertainly out of the corner of his eyes, but all Draco could do was sit there stunned, staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

Potter rushed to rephrase himself. “I mean, it’s probably a terrible idea, I don’t see why you ever would; we’re worst enemies, after all, and you have your own friends, and I’d probably be a horrible flatmate – really, really horrible – but I was thinking, you know, we’ve been doing so well together, we haven’t killed each other yet, and Ron and Hermione are going to be wanting their own place, and I really…I don’t do well on my own, but I can’t see myself with anyone – sharing a flat with anyone, that is – but you.”

There were a thousand screaming voices in Draco’s head, all trying to be heard. _Sweet Merlin_ , Draco thought distractedly as Potter stumbled on. _Does he ever shut up?_

“And…oh bloody hell, I’ve probably mucked everything up now,” Potter was saying miserably. Draco laid a hand over his mouth, and Potter looked at him miserably. Those damnable eyes had gotten him into this mess in the first place, he thought, but somehow he couldn’t work up the energy to be angry about it.

“I accept,” he said, taking his hand away.

Potter’s brilliant smile was infectious, but Draco tried to hide it by telling him sternly, “But don’t expect me to do any housework. Malfoys do not clean.”

“Oh, sure,” Potter said, leaning back comfortably. “You say that now, but I’m sure we can work out a few…incentives for it.”

Malfoy looked at him suspiciously. “There is no incentive great enough to get _me_ to do house elf work,” he said. “I’m very delicate, you know.”

“Mmm,” Potter commented, his eyes closing. The nerve! Draco thought. He was actually falling asleep! He raised his hand to poke Potter’s arm, but thought better of it, instead watching the other boy as his face slowly relaxed and his breathing evened. Gently, gently, Draco smoothed the other boy’s hair back from his face and removed his glasses, his touch lingering perhaps a second too long. Potter could use the sleep, he supposed. He’d stay awake and keep watch. He settled back against the wall, vigilant, listening to the soft sounds the boy next to him made as he slept.

***

He woke the next morning to something jabbing him repeatedly in the side.

“Ow,” he grumbled fuzzily. The jabbing stopped.

“Finally!”

He opened his eyes to see Potter’s misbegotten face close to his own.

“Sleep well?” Potter the Insufferable asked, apparently unaware that it was an ungodly hour. The sky above him was barely beginning to grey with dawn.

“Nngh,” Draco moaned. “It’s far too early, Scarhead.”

Potter’s expression went curiously blank. “It’s time to get moving.”

The world rushed back to Draco, and he shut his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the bleakness of it all. “Merlin,” he muttered.

“Come on.” Potter stood up, peering carefully over the edge of their hole. “No movement yet; we need to get into position before things start heating up.”

Draco rolled over and heaved himself up, nearly falling down again as his stiff muscles informed him of their displeasure. Potter caught his arm and held him steady.

“I’m fine,” Draco growled irritably. Potter merely nodded, releasing him and turning away.

“Are you ready?”

“Are you?” Draco kept his voice blunt, emotionless.

Potter glanced back at him, a wry twist to his mouth. “No.”

“Let’s just…” Draco swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden hollow feeling in his gut. “I mean, the sooner we do it, the sooner it’s all over with, right?”

“Let’s do it, then,” Potter said tersely, his face a mask, and led the way out of the hole.

They crept along silently, using an old stone wall for cover until they reached a small copse of trees near the Death Eater stronghold. Potter crouched down and waited for Draco to catch up. “Do you have everything?” he asked as Draco drew level with him.

Draco gave him an exasperated look. “Now’s a fine time to ask that question,” he said sharply.

Potter scowled. “Just answer the question.”

“Touchy. But yes, Potter,” he said, holding up a hand as Potter opened his mouth to let fly some undoubtedly scathing-yet-uninspired comment. “I have everything we need. Give me a moment to set it up.”

Potter turned away as Draco set up what they would need for the spell. If he concentrated, he could pretend that it was just another project assigned by Snape or McGonagall, pretend that they’d never left school, pretend that he still hated Potter with all the glorious fiery passion of misguided youth. 

It was a complicated bit of spellwork, but he was confident he could pull it off. All he really had to do was bring the fragment of Voldemort’s soul to the surface. Potter had the difficult part, he thought, glancing over at the other boy. Potter’s shoulders were hunched, his body drawn in on itself. He looked… vulnerable, Draco thought with a pang that resisted all his attempts to quash it. The Wizarding world had placed the entire burden its trust on those thin shoulders, expected a boy of seventeen to save them from their worst nightmare.

Turning away from the uncomfortable reflection, he tried to focus his energy on making sure everything they needed was in place and properly aligned, but his mind kept skipping back to Potter.

He remembered the years he’d thought that Potter sought the attention, remembered believing that Potter constantly turned the spotlight onto himself on purpose. He’d been jealous of the way Potter attracted attention with such little apparent effort, jealous of the way everyone turned away from _him_ to gape at Potter. 

He knew better now. Potter didn’t want the attention – had never wanted it.

The groundwork for the spell finally prepared, Draco sat back on his heels and looked again at Harry – Potter, _damn_ it – for a moment. He was standing at the edge of the clearing, the first rays of morning sun just starting to wind their way through the stand of trees, illuminating him, gilding the wire frames of his spectacles and turning his ridiculous hair into a dark halo. He still looked far too young to do any world-saving, but when he stood up straight he looked – not exactly heroic, Draco thought, no _real_ hero would be caught dead in that jumper – but stronger, ready for this moment at last despite the fear that lurked behind his eyes and ran lines of tension through his body.

Potter turned, and Draco immediately dropped his eyes, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring. “It’s ready.”

“Right,” Potter said, in a strange, strangled sort of voice. Draco watched out of the corner of his eyes as the other boy crossed back towards him. “What now?”

For a moment, Draco forgot that they were in a war, forgot that they were hiding in a small grove of trees outside of the Death Eaters’ largest stronghold, even forgot that he and Potter were on the same side now. For a fleeting moment, they were back at Hogwarts, students, and Potter was the same annoying dunce he’d always seemed to be.

“Potter,” said Draco tartly, “you’re the one who showed me this bloody spell. Could you _not_ play the idiot for once?”

“Dr – Malfoy,” Potter managed in that same strangled tone, his gaze fixed determinedly over Draco’s left shoulder. “One or both of us could be dead very, very soon. I need to do something to keep from going completely round the bend. Strange as it seems, your obnoxious voice is all that stands between me and a ward at St. Mungo’s right now. Talk to me.”

Struck, Draco nodded jerkily. “Stand over here,” he said, beckoning, clearing his throat out of nerves. “We have to be closer together for it to work.”

Potter obeyed, moving to stand in front of him. Draco tried not to look him in the eyes; it was easier for both of them that way. “This may feel a bit strange,” he said, raising his wand.

“A bit,” snorted Potter. “That’s an understatement,”

“You were the one who wanted narration. Try not to move.”

Draco pushed aside the parts of his mind that wanted to drink in the way the light caught on the curve of Potter’s cheek, wanted to analyze his musky smell, wanted to run the hell away from what awaited them, screaming all the way. Taking a deep breath, he distanced himself, locking most of his conscious thought away before turning to the task at hand, raising his wand. It occurred to him in a distant sort of way that this was an intimate, delicate connection, and he wondered briefly again just why Potter had chosen _him_ for it before pushing that thought back as well and plunging in.

The magic rippled under his hands as he directed it, making him feel giddy with its strength. Dense and annoying he might be, Draco thought, but Potter was certainly a powerful wizard. Harry, for his part, stood quietly throughout, flinching only occasionally as Draco sifted deeper and deeper through his magic, looking.

He had thought immersing himself in someone else’s being would be similar to diving into a deep pool, sinking slowly to the bottom of clear water. That theory was, he quickly discovered, completely and utterly false. It was in fact somewhat like drowning and flying at the same time, surrounded on all sides by snatches of voices and pictures, all whizzing around too quickly to absorb, and everywhere there was light. Occasionally he caught glimpses of colors: here a green or a blue tint, there a blush of deep red, but mostly there was only dazzlingly bright light, overwhelming his senses. It would be so easy to lie back, to let the lightshow carry him where it wanted, but with an internal growl he gripped harder on his own magic and plowed onward, looking for the Horcrux.

Eventually, he felt it through the intoxicating brilliance of Harry’s magic: a sense of _wrongness_ , of darkness lurking behind the sunlight. Slowly, gently, he teased it out, drawing it nearer and nearer to the surface, making Harry shiver. The key was to get it just beneath the cover of Harry’s magic – just beneath his skin, in a sense – without letting it break through. It needed to remain quiescent, undetectable except by Harry and himself; he had no idea what it might get up to if it broke free of the confines of Harry’s magic.

As it slipped into place behind the infamous scar, Draco dropped his arms, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“Feels strange,” Harry said, rubbing at his forehead.

“Strange how?” asked Draco, concerned. Perhaps he’d pulled it up too far; what if Voldemort was able to sense it?

“Cold. And a bit slimy, actually.” Harry shuddered, lowering his hand again, and Draco tracked its path downward until it came to rest by Harry’s side.

He looked up again to find Harry watching him, a strange expression on his face. Harry seemed to be standing far closer than he had been before, he thought distractedly. Strange thing, magic.

“What?” he whispered, caught in Harry’s gaze. His fingertips itched, and he had a sudden mad urge to run them up Harry’s arm and press them against the pulse he could see fluttering in the other boy’s neck.

“Nothing,” replied Harry, voice equally hushed. He shifted, and Draco flinched before he realized that he was only raising his hand again. Carefully, deliberately, as if he was afraid Draco would bolt at any moment, Harry brushed two fingers down the side of Draco’s face.

Draco leaned into the touch unconsciously, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord, and Harry stilled for a moment before opening his palm to cradle Draco’s cheek in his hand.

“Draco,” he murmured.

Hearing his name from Harry’s lips sent a tremor through Draco, and he opened his eyes again to see Harry leaning in closer. _That_ kick-started his brain into action again, and he pulled back, shaking his head to clear it.

“Don’t,” he said shakily. Harry – and when, he realized, had he started thinking of him as Harry, not Potter? – looked hurt. “It’s not,” he tried again. “I don’t… There’s too much. Too much out there waiting, too much between us, too many…” he searched for the words he wanted, but he couldn’t find them past the lump in his throat.

“Skeletons from the past?” offered Harry, and Draco nodded.

Harry stepped closer again and took his hand, linking their fingers. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice suddenly fierce. Draco looked at their intertwined hands, for once at a loss for words as realization began to dawn.

“I need…” Harry hesitated, and the wild light went back out of his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “I just need something to hold onto, to get me through today,” he said quietly.

Draco squeezed his hand. “I’ll be there,” he said, and if his voice shook slightly, well, there was no one there to notice. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

Harry gave him a shaky half-smile, nodding. They were so close, Draco thought, so close together. It would be the work of a second to reach up, to press their lips together…

He was leaning in before he thought about it, but he bit the inside of his cheek hard and stopped himself, putting a hand on Harry’s chest and pushing him regretfully away. “There’s something else to look forward to,” he said, letting a hint of humor through his voice. “Plenty of time for that kind of thing after we save the world.”

Harry chuckled at that, unconsciously straightening his posture, taking up the mantle of the Boy Who Lived once more. Before Draco could completely untangle their hands, he gave a tug, pulling Draco closer to give him a swift peck on the cheek.

“For luck,” he said, pulling away and heading out of the woods at a trot. Draco took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, and followed, wand at the ready.


	6. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/10959.html#cutid1). (13 June 2008)

__

Your promises, they look like lies  
Your honesty, like a back that hides a knife  
I promise you  
I promise you  
And I am finally free

The three of them were sitting around the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, waiting. At first glance, they looked perfectly normal; three teenagers relaxing after a day where the worst that could happen was extra Potions homework. No casual observer would notice the slightly grayish pallor on Ron’s face, the way Hermione’s hand shook slightly as she smoothed his wayward red hair. They wouldn’t see how Harry, hunched over in a worn armchair, had clenched his fists so tightly he’d drawn blood from his palms.

They were waiting.

_I shouldn’t have done it_ , Harry thought miserably, leaning his head on his knees as if that might dull the sharp ache in the pit of his stomach. _I shouldn’t have agreed_.

Less than twenty-four hours before, it had seemed like they were finally starting to go in the right direction. Now one of his closest friends was in St. Mungo’s, probably dying.

Something about that thought seemed like it should feel wrong, he knew. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and scrubbed at his face. One part of him knew that Ginny should seem like more than a friend, knew that he should feel like a lover, driven mad with fear about losing his other half; he shouldn’t be feeling the heavy, leaden worry of a concerned brother, worn down by dread. 

He pushed the thoughts aside. Now was not the time to think about what _that_ might signify.

He moved again, restless, and Hermione gave him a look that tried to be sympathetic but ended up hopeless. Turning away from it, he huddled down in the chair again. Ginny wasn’t supposed to come with them on missions. She was supposed to be safe, either at the Burrow or at Hogwarts. She wasn’t supposed to be in _danger_. But then she’d shown up at the door of Grimmauld Place as they were leaving on a mission, her face set and eyes snapping.

He threw his head back, leaning it against the chair, and stared at the moldering plaster of the ceiling, remembering.

* * *

“I’m coming,” she said, and Harry stared at her in astonishment. Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Ron dropped his pack on his foot and hopped around on one leg, swearing.

“What the… buggering… hell?” he gasped, and tripped over the troll’s leg umbrella stand, sending it crashing. The curtains covering Mrs. Black’s painting flew apart, and she began to scream.

“Mudbloods! Blood traitors! You’ve stolen my house – you have no right...”

Ginny yelled over Mrs. Black’s voice as Hermione ran to pull the curtains closed. “I’m going with you!”

“Like hell you are!” Ron bellowed, limping over to help Hermione. “What am I supposed to tell Mum if something happens to you?”

“The same thing _I’m_ supposed to tell her if something happens to _you_!” Ginny shot back angrily, hands on her hips.

The portrait continued screaming, oblivious. “...And where’s that blood traitor scum who calls himself my eldest son? Doesn’t he have the courage to face his mother’s portrait?”

Ron sputtered as he and Hermione finally managed to pull the curtains closed, muffling the voice. “That’s completely different!”

Ginny glared. “No, it isn’t,” she argued. “I’m of age now; I have as much a right to go as any of you.”

She spoke to Ron, but it was Harry she looked at, and he wished, just for a moment, she wouldn’t. He wished for a lot of things: he wished Voldemort hadn’t killed his parents, wished Dumbledore hadn’t left him to rot with the Dursleys for eleven years, wished he was a normal kid not trying to escape death at the hands of a madman every other week, wished they weren’t teenagers in the middle of a war. Mostly, though, he wished people didn’t see an adult where he felt like a child. He’d never felt like a leader; being considered one made him supremely uncomfortable.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Ginny had turned back to Ron, and the two of them were arguing fiercely.

“You don’t even know what we’re doing!”

“Actually,” Ginny said, looking smugly pleased with herself. “I do.” She pulled a hand out of one pocket, a pair of Extendable Ears dangling from her fingers.

“Why, you little...”

“Never underestimate the little sister of Fred and George,” she told Ron.

“I’m their _brother_!” Ron said, outraged. “I _never_...”

“Oh, give the self-righteous act a rest, Ronald,” said Ginny, “or I’ll start calling you Percy.”

Hermione had picked up her pack as they argued, slinging it over one shoulder as she walked over to where Harry stood, fiddling with the straps on his own pack. “Harry,” she muttered, “that Portkey’s going to activate soon, and we need to...”

“I know.” He rubbed one temple as the fight between Ginny and Ron grew shriller.

“...and you were the one who wrecked my toy broomstick, weren’t you? You pulled all the twigs out of it!”

“It was only because you never took me flying with you! It was always ‘the _boys_ ’ – oh, the _boys_ are going flying, the _boys_ are going down to the village, and _maybe_ if little sister behaves we’ll bring her back a _pet rock_!”

“I had nothing to do with that rock; that was all Fred’s –”

“Bollocks!”

“HEY!” 

Ginny and Ron looked up, startled into silence by Harry’s yell.

“Ron,” Harry said, feeling old and tired, “you’re not helping. Ginny...”

She looked back at him, bright and eager, and he froze, hesitating. Who was he to make the call? He was too young to be making decisions about anyone’s life – they were all young, far too young to be fighting a war...

“Harry,” Hermione said urgently. “The Portkey...”

He nodded at her and squared his shoulders to hide his doubt. “Ginny,” he repeated. “You can come with us. I can’t make you stay behind.” He held up a hand to quell her crow of triumph. “But you need to do exactly what I tell you to do, alright?”

She met his eyes steadily. “I know it’s not going to be a walk in the park, Harry. I can take care of myself in a fight.”

“That’s not exactly...” _what I meant_ , he wanted to say, but Hermione had thrust out one hand with the Portkey – an old battered candlestick – and there was a scramble to grab hold of it before all four of them were whirled off into the darkening twilight.

* * *

“Spread out a bit,” Harry whispered, “but don’t get too far apart. We’re looking for a hole in the ground –”

“A door, actually,” interrupted Hermione. “A small trapdoor over an old badger den; it’ll have the Hufflepuff crest on it somewhere. It’s probably overgrown, but hopefully it won’t have rotted too much.”

“Wouldn’t a rotted door be easier to get through?” Ginny asked, straightening out of their huddle.

“But it might mean that something – or someone – else has gotten the cup first,” Harry told her, standing up warily as well. “Ron, Hermione, you know what to do. Ginny, go left, near the tree line, and keep your head down. Send up red sparks if anything goes wrong or you’re attacked.”

“You got it, Harry,” Ginny said, giving him a warm smile. The hand gripping her wand arm trembled, though, and he reached out without thinking, gripping her shoulder.

“Be careful, Gin.”

She gave him a quick, impetuous peck on the cheek before pulling away. “I’ll be fine,” she said airily. “You just watch your own step.”

He watched her head off into the field for only a minute before shaking his head and moving in the other direction, staying low to the ground. Their research had led them to this field, and they’d known from the beginning that they’d probably end up combing it inch by inch on foot, looking for the cup. None of them had liked the plan – the field was huge, for one thing, and far too open for Harry’s taste. There were no trees or bushes to duck under or behind, no abandoned buildings to take refuge in; there was nowhere to take cover if they were attacked. Their best hope was getting enough of a warning that they could Apparate back to Grimmauld Place. 

If worst came to worst though, he figured, at least Ginny would be able to get into the trees and get away. It was the reason he’d placed her near the edge of the field, rather than in the middle with the rest of them. If there were Death Eaters around, they’d see three people in the middle of a field far more easily than one person near the trees.

Minutes dragged into hours as they worked their way slowly across the field. Harry began to regret their decision to search at night as the strain began to tell in his back and eyes with nothing to show for the effort.

The horizon had begun to go grey with dawn before Hermione gave a shout. Harry tensed, automatically bringing his wand up before he realized she was shouting in triumph, not alarm. He could barely make her out in the weak glimmer of light from the east, but he started jogging over, joining Ron as he did so.

“Figures that Hermione found it,” Ron said good-naturedly as they picked their way across the field.

“She probably found directions in that book she was looking through,” joked Harry, feeling lighter already with the Horcrux found and dawn pushing the shadows of night away.

Ron laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past her to know the exact location already; I bet she just wanted us to hunt around in the dirt to ‘build character’ or something.”

They reached Hermione breathless and chuckling. She smiled up at them from the hole she crouched next to, her face streaked with dirt, the cup in one hand.

“That’s it?” Harry asked, though he could already tell; he could sense the hidden menace crawling beneath the gold.

Before Hermione could answer, a shrill scream reached them. Looking up, Harry could see red sparks in the distance.

He swore. “Ginny,” he said, and took off, Ron and Hermione hot on his heels.

Harry took stock of the situation automatically as they drew near the fight. Ginny was holding off three Death Eaters, with two already down – he could see the black-robed bodies in the grass behind her. All were fixed on the fight at hand; neither the Death Eaters nor Ginny saw them running. His wand was already out. As soon as he was in range he pointed it at one of the remaining five hooded figures and bellowed “ _STUPEFY_!”

The Death Eater went down, and Ginny whipped her head around. Harry could see that one of her cheeks was shiny and pink from a burn.

One of the Death Eaters aimed a hex at him. He hit the ground to avoid it and heard Ron and Hermione drop to earth just behind him.

Decisive _crack_ s announced the arrival of more Death Eaters. “Ginny!” he yelled. “Look out! _Expelliar_...” But before he could finish the spell, another curse came hurtling at him, and he threw up a hasty shield. Ron and Hermione had moved away, throwing and blocking hexes in tandem. 

He saw the raised wands too late. He tried to roll away, to help, to _save her_ , save the only girl he’d ever thought he loved, but he was pinned, helpless as he watched Ginny snarl as she blocked one curse only to be struck by the other. She spun around once, her hair streaming behind her like a banner, catching spatters of her blood as she fell. For a moment he stood, transfixed by the sight, horrified, unable to move.

Hermione’s voice broke through his shock. “Harry!” she cried out. “Behind you!”

He whirled to find another three Death Eaters behind him. Grimly, he sprang back into action, blocking their hexes, but despite his best efforts, they drove him slowly back, step by step. They were herding him, Harry realized, trying to separate him from Ron and Hermione so he’d be easier to deal with.

“ _Stupefy_!” Ron yelled, dueling two Death Eaters at once. “Take that,” one Death Eater dropped like a stone to the earth; “and that,” the other one dove out of the way of his hex; “and that! You bloody bastards!” He glanced over at Harry. “Harry, there are too many of them!”

Hermione screamed, and Harry turned from his own battle to see a telltale streak of green light whizzing toward her. She threw up her hands in defense, and it struck the cup, vanishing. She dropped the Horcrux, and as it hit the ground, it exploded, sending out a shockwave which knocked all of them off their feet. The world went hot and red before sinking into blessed dark unconsciousness.

* * *

Harry came to slowly, wincing as he struggled upward. _Merlin_ , it felt as if Hagrid had been pounding his skull with a hammer, and he hadn’t the foggiest idea how... He sat bolt upright as his memory came rushing back.

“Ginny!” he yelled, leaping up and looking wildly around. There were more Death Eaters than he remembered, all still out cold. He saw Ron and Hermione, just beginning to stir, and... there. That ribbon of ginger hair, spread out like a signal between the green grass and the black robes.

He sprinted to her, nearly twisting his ankle in a hidden hole. “Ginny,” he repeated, dropping to his knees by his side and reaching for her wrist. “Ginny, can you hear me?”

Her pulse was weak, but her eyes fluttered open. Her face was pale, so pale, he thought distractedly.

“Harry?” she asked, her voice faint. “’M sorry, Harry...”

“Shh,” he said, smoothing her hair off of her forehead and trying to smile through the weight in his stomach. She was shivering; he wasn’t sure if that was a bad sign, and he spared a moment to wish he’d gotten even a little training in basic healing. “Don’t try to speak.” Without looking away from her, he yelled, “Ron? Hermione!”

Ron’s voice came from behind him. “Already here, mate.”

“Cold,” whispered Ginny, looking up at Harry with beseeching eyes. “Why’m I so cold, Harry?”

“St. Mungo’s,” Harry said grimly, gathering Ginny carefully into his arms. “Now, before anyone else wakes up.”

He heard two _pop_ s behind him as Ron and Hermione Apparated. Taking a breath and closing his eyes, he followed, hugging Ginny close. _Don’t die_ , he thought fiercely while the field dissolved around him. _I’ll do anything. Please, Ginny, stay with us._

* * *

Ginny had been efficiently whisked away by Healers as soon as they’d landed in St. Mungo’s, but they lingered in the waiting room, not quite willing to leave.

“Hermione,” Harry murmured, glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot. “The cup. Is it...”

She nodded jerkily, still pale, holding tightly onto Ron’s hand. “It’s destroyed,” she whispered back. “The Killing Curse hit it directly, and then with the explosion... there’s no way it survived.”

He sat back, his mind eased for the moment. No sooner had he taken a breath, however, when Remus Lupin strode into the room, looking the worse for wear and slightly wild-eyed.

“Professor Lupin!” Ron said in astonishment, and Lupin swung around, looking at them in equal incredulity.

“You already know?” he demanded. “How do you already know? The Order was just alerted a few minutes ago...”

“Know what, Professor?” It couldn’t be good news, Harry thought, but it couldn’t be any worse than the news they themselves bore.

Lupin tugged at the sleeves of his sweater, looking surreptitiously around. The only other living person in the room was the receptionist, who was deeply engrossed in the latest copy of _Witch Weekly_. “The Ministry’s been attacked,” he said in a low voice. “The battle is going in our favor at the moment, but that may yet change. Tonks was injured, and I brought her here before it ended.” He hesitated, looking at Ron. “I haven’t seen your father or your brother since this morning,” he told him quietly.

Ron had gone tense and still at Lupin’s words. “I don’t give a damn about that two-faced rat bastard,” he said, his voice heated, “but Dad... you’re sure you haven’t heard anything?”

Lupin shook his head. “Nothing, but that’s no real cause for alarm...”

Ron stood up, interrupting him. “Let me know if anything changes with Ginny?” he asked Harry and Hermione. “I have to go to the Burrow.”

“We understand,” Hermione told him, squeezing his hand before letting it go.

Harry nodded. “Go on, mate. You know we’ll tell you if something comes up.”

As Ron left, Lupin looked at them, a quizzical look on his face. “Ginny’s hurt?”

“We had a run-in with some Death Eaters,” Harry said shortly.

“Death Eaters...” Lupin trailed off, frowning as their presence began to really sink in. He regarded them sternly. “You know you shouldn’t be out in public, _especially_ not you, Harry. Too much depends on you.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, and Lupin raised a hand to cut him off. “I know you have this... secret mission from Dumbledore,” he said, his frown deepening. “But you _must_ get out of sight, especially if you’ve been seen and attacked. Voldemort has spies in all sorts of unlikely places.” Lupin gave the secretary a doubtful look.

“We need to be here for Ginny,” Harry argued, but Lupin would have none of it.

“I’ll be here anyway, keeping an eye on Tonks,” he said firmly. “I’ll watch Ginny. Go back to Grimmauld Place.” When they hesitated, his eyebrows came together threateningly. “ _Go_.”

“Let’s go, Harry,” said Hermione quietly. “There’s nothing we can do here, anyway.”

Harry glared, but allowed Hermione to lead him away. He chanced one glance over his shoulder, to see Lupin slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with his head against the wall.

* * *

The clock ticked away the minutes without remorse as Hermione and Harry sat silently in Grimmauld Place, waiting for news, for anyone to come and break the silence.

They both jumped when the Floo roared to life, green flames spitting Ron out onto the carpet. Hermione ran to him.

“How is...” she fumbled for the words. “Home?”

“Fine,” Ron said, his voice only a little ragged as his arms went around her and pulled her close. “They’re all fine.” He looked at Harry, giving him a glimmer of a smile. “Dad’s home safe. Percy took a hex for him, the idiot. Came barreling out of nowhere and pushed Dad out of the way.”

“Oh,” Harry managed, a little of the tightness easing in his throat. “And Percy’s...”

“They say he’ll be fine. Just minor injuries. He’s getting patched up at St. Mungo’s now, says he’ll never work for the Ministry again.” Ron paused. “Any news about...”

“No,” said Harry, feeling the bleakness of the words in his very marrow. “No word.” He studied his fingernails intently. “How did your mum take the news?”

“Haven’t told her yet,” Ron said, voice flat. “Figured we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.”

So they sat, tense, still reeking of sweat and fear, the echoing tick-tock of the clock the only sound. Harry watched its hands move slowly forward; not thinking, not feeling, just watching the clock, numb. Thinking meant pain and guilt and _acceptance_ that he’d made the call, that a friend was in St. Mungo’s because of _him_...

All he’d wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to be normal, to live his own life quietly with a girl and a little house and maybe a few kids or a dog. That’s what he held on to – to the thought that when the war was over, he could go back and find that vision still alive, find that girl waiting for him with her mischievous smile, her ginger hair blowing in the breeze...

What was he going to do, if Ginny... _Don’t_ , he ordered, stopping himself mid-thought. _You don’t know what’s going to happen._

Finally, finally, they heard the front door creak open and quiet footsteps in the hallway. Harry was up and out of the armchair before he really thought about it, Ron and Hermione leaping up next to him as Lupin entered the room, looking tired and old and more worn-down than ever.

One look at his face told Harry that something had gone wrong. “Tonks?” he asked, dreading and yet hoping, because Tonks was dear but she meant _not Ginny_ , she was his fault in that everyone was fighting and dying for him in some obscure way, but not _directly_ , he hadn’t given the instructions that had gotten her killed...

Remus shook his head, and Harry felt cold dread creeping up his spine, numbness seeping into his arms and legs. “Tonks will be fine,” he said, his eyes full of pity as he regarded the three of them.

Harry could hardly get out the words. “Ginny?” he whispered, still refusing to believe.

“They did everything they could,” Remus told them quietly. “She didn’t make it.”

Ron sagged under the weight of his words, giving a quiet little moan. Hermione’s hands flew to her face, stifling a choking sob. Harry felt nothing but the gnawing weight of guilt, heavy in his stomach.

“I’ve... I’ve got to go home.” Ron stumbled over his words, his voice wavering. He cleared his throat, which didn’t seem to do much. “I’ve got to...” he stopped himself forcefully.

Hermione whispered in his ear and wrapped him in a fierce hug before stepping back, wiping her eyes. Ron looked at Harry and tried to speak, but his mouth twisted involuntarily and he gulped instead, turning and making his way to the fireplace. His heavy footsteps were loud in the silent house, the green _whoosh_ of the Floo far too bright for the hazy gloom that never seemed to lift from Grimmauld Place.

The flames faded, and they stood silently, awkwardly, none of them knowing what to say, each wrapped in their own particular grief. All three of them jumped when a sudden, terrific banging came from the front door. 

Lupin swung around, frowning. “You haven’t given anyone else the address, have you?” he asked Harry, already moving toward the door.

“No,” Harry said dully, following along almost automatically. What did he care who was knocking on the door? Ginny was dead, and it was his fault.

_My fault_ , he thought again as Lupin opened the door cautiously, and the cold dread settled more heavily on his shoulders. _So many dead because of me_...

He tore himself away from those thoughts as Remus stepped back with an exclamation of surprise. Almost curious despite himself, he stepped forward and peered over Remus’s shoulder to see.

Professor Snape stood on his doorstep, his mouth curved in a half-snarl of distaste, and behind him was Draco Malfoy, looking wary and defiant and utterly exhausted.


End file.
